


Dead Birds of a Feather

by TwixforBats



Category: Arrested Development
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 20:29:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwixforBats/pseuds/TwixforBats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To be fair, alcohol does usually happen when two brother-in-laws are forced to bond by outside circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Birds of a Feather

From Michael’s perspective, there’s no reason to tell Tony that he knows he’s there and sneaking around: Tony, after all, seems happily oblivious to the fact that Michael is also in the model home, let alone in the kitchen where he can see most of the house with almost no effort. Telling Tony that he can see him acting suspiciously around the house would just scare him and, besides, the television still isn't working, so a black and pink magician sneaking around the living room is better than nothing.

That said, there’s only so long he can enjoy the show before something that’s half pity and half diligence kicks in and wearily asks him to think of the house, so Michael chokes back the sigh that threatens to slip out of his lips and does his best to muster up a smile.

“Oh hey, Tony, didn’t see you there.”

Injecting any kind of enthusiasm into that sentence has left Michael with no strength to also attempt realism, but Tony doesn’t seem to notice, as he's too busy trying to mask a startled little jump with a flamboyant twirl.

“Did someone say _wonder!_ ” he exclaims as he raises his arms, triumphant smile clashing incredibly with the deer-in-the-headlights eyes he’s evidently trying to hide.

Michael smirks. “No,” he says, very matter-of-fact, “nobody did.” Then he stands up, calmly walking to the living room as he decides that, whatever is going to happen, his glass needs to be refilled.

“So, what brings you here? I think that Gob's still in the office.”

The frozen deer eyes change to something more sure, something that, somehow, doesn’t require Tony to change his winning smile. “Sorry Mikey,” and Michael feels something inside his brain curl up and die when he hears that, though he’s quickly distracted by the completely natural way Tony snatches his newly refilled glass away from him, “I’m afraid I can’t tell you- strictly magician business, you see.”

“Well, if you think it doesn’t matter then I guess I won’t ask.”

Michael smiles placidly as he pours himself another glass of whiskey, definitely not enjoying the way Tony’s grin narrows from confident to a more reasonable merely civil one: enjoying that would be rude, and Michael is not rude. At most, he’s slightly playful.

“But what about you, Mikey, what are you doing here? This is Gob’s house, right?”

The second part is less of a question and more of a smug ‘something’s wrong and I’m onto you’, which would make Michael scoff if he weren’t so busy grimacing at the fact that Tony has called him Mikey again- Michael knows that he’s doing that just to annoy him. “My house, actually,” he says, his voice a tad bit too dry but the fake smile still on and strong. “This whole place, it’s all mine. So I think I’m free to drop in whenever I want, yes?”

Tony nods back at him, his smile taking on a delicate shade of annoyance that, nonetheless, doesn’t seem to affect his expression. “Well then,” he exclaims a bit too cheerfully, raising his glass in mock celebration, “I guess that means that we can wait for Gob together!”

“Yes.” Michael can feel his own smile stretching out so much it actually hurts, but when he tries to make it stop his face refuses to listen: all he can do is try to distract Tony with more words he regrets the moment he says them. “We can spend some time together, get to know each other, eh?”

They stare at each other with incredibly fake smiles as they both realize that something went terribly wrong there, the silence only underlying just how much they’d both rather do absolutely anything else other than spend more time together with only a glass of whiskey in their hands.

“I’ll get the vodka,” Michael exclaims a bit too enthusiastically, turning way too quickly to the little bar that suddenly appears to be too empty for the occasion.

“I know where the ice is,” Tony trills back, literally skipping towards the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

It turns out rather quickly that Tony is a lightweight when compared to Michael.  
That, of course, says absolutely nothing: as a member of the Bluth family Michael had received his first taste of alcohol in the womb. Even now, Michael can't help but connect milk with whiskey and silently accepts single malt as one of his comfort foods. Still, that doesn't change the fact that Tony is veering towards incoherent mess while Michael is patiently chasing a quiet buzz.

“I know perfectly well that you don't like me.”

Michael blinks at the now slightly unstable Tony, debating with himself whether he should respond to that or wait for Tony to continue: on one hand, a lie would probably be polite on this occasion, but on the other hand Tony is drunk enough to be slurring his words and Michael kind of needs a laugh.

“You don't like me,” Tony says, wobbling on his seat with the vodka swirling dangerously in the glass, “because I'm a gay magician, isn't it?”

“Oh no no no!” Michael even shakes his head at that, leaning a bit towards Tony with his best earnest expression on. “I don't hate you because you're gay!”

The pause that follows couldn't be more full of silent implications, but Tony is apparently in a place where time works in a different way: those five seconds are probably just enough for him to start forming the words in his mind and the road from his brain to his mouth is long and full of dangers.

“Well, you know what,” Tony slurs, pointing at Michael with his half empty glass of vodka, “I make Gob happy so _shut up_.”

For a second there Michael wonders if Tony has realized that he's spent half an hour drinking with him, is not openly insulting him and, most of all, that Michael hasn't kicked Tony out of his house even though he got in in a shifty way: in Michael's book that's way past ' _civil interaction with a person he doesn't like_ ' and straight into ' _saint-like acceptance of every being in the universe_ '.  
Still, Tony is drunk, so Michael shrugs off the rudeness with a simple roll of his eyes.

“You don't even _like_ him, do you.” Tony, of course, is too drunk to realize how forgiving Michael is being to him- he even goes so far as spilling some of his drink around in his ramblings. “I hear how Gob talks about you- you _hate_ him. _You're disappointed in him_.”

“Hey, you shut up right fucking now!”

Tony draws, or rather, wobbles away from him, slumping down into the couch with a shocked pout as Michael jumps on his feet, glaring with surprising intensity considering that the whole room had tilted at the sudden movement. “You know nothing about us, so don't you _dare_ say that I don't love my brother! I'm not disappointed in him and if you ever try to say that again I will kick you out, is that clear?”

There's a pause as Tony glares back at Michael, a dark shadow passing over his face before he spits a low “sure” through his gritted teeth. That's not the apology Michael wants, but it is enough for his legs to give up and let him fall back into the armchair, the vodka spilling over his pants.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Of course_ I'm disappointed in him.”

Michael has reached the buzz glasses ago. The buzz is, in fact, a memory of times when people dreamed dreams of hope and light.  
Michael, right now, is _drunk_.  
Not too much drunk- he's still able to walk, even if not in a straight line, and he will probably remember this part the following morning. He's just drunk enough to feel incredibly sad about himself.

Tony, however, is _incredibly_ drunk, as evinced by the triumphant ' _ah-ah_!' he trills the moment Michael says that, slamming his hand on the table in victory and only barely noticing when it breaks under the blow. “I knew it! I fucking _knew_ it!” he screams spilling vodka everywhere, a big, stupid, dumb grin that's probably supposed to be defiant, “he's like a dead dove for you!”

For a couple of seconds Michael just stares at him, blinking slowly, waiting for his brain to translate that last sentence into something that makes any kind of sense whatsoever: his brain, sadly, fails at the task at hand.

“You're all bastards,” Tony slurs, obviously deciding that 'he's like a dead dove' is the kind of thing that does not need an explanation. “You all look down on him, you're like snobby bastard white doves with a branch of olive tree, sneering at dead pigeons with fake flowers.”

It probably isn't the best moment to wonder what's going on with Tony's fascination with dead birds, though it probably has something to do with Gob- yeah, it's totally because of Gob, of course.  
Michael tries to shake off that thought by literally shaking his head, which is not a great idea if the way the room tilts is anything to go by. “Look down on him? We're all down _with_ him- have you _met_ us?”

“Yeah, you're all bastards,” Tony says, nodding eagerly. Michael can't really look at him doing that- the room is unstable enough as it is.

“Linds's trying to put up a wall to stop immigrants- she spent her whole life going on and on about rights and semi-liberal lies and all of a sudden she's a Republican trying to put up a wall! My brother-in-law and niece are sex offenders, mother and father remain terrible people, my son refuses to talk with his own father and I did... _things_...” Michael whimpers something under his breath, trying to find some comfort in the world between his hands: there is, sadly, none. “Bustie's in jail. I refuse to believe it's his fault, but you just know that it's because of something _we_ did. We're poison. We- I made my son _sad_. I lied to him- we _all_ lie! So yes, I'm disappointed in Gob, I don't like how he shrinks his responsibilities and I don't like that his job is a joke- and you're to blame for this too, you know that?!”

Tony widens his eyes, pointing at himself in a wordless 'what'.

“Yeah, you're here encouraging him to do something that is not helping him! He needs stability and self-respect and something to look at the end of the day, something that will make him feel as if he's achieved something, but you come around and make him think that being a magician is something more than lies and the scorn of others!”

Tony frowns, pursing his lips, but still doesn't say anything: Michael is pretty sure that that's not normal, but he doesn't really care. That wasn't even the point, anyway.

“ _Look_. He's not the black sheep. He's the disappointing older brother of three disappointing siblings. Together we're four disappointing children disappointing our disappointing parents, all part of a disappointing family that lives and breathes disappointment. We find disappointing people and have disappointing sons and daughters who are disappointed in us. Here. That's the disappointing story.”

He waits for Tony to say something, but Tony seems to be too busy pouting at his glass to talk. Not that there's really anything to say about that other than accept it as the sad truth and drink some more, really.  
Drink more vodka and, for some reason, really hoping for it to turn into single malt whiskey.

“I'm _not_ disappointing.”

Tony is glaring at him as he growls that, almost daring Michael to speak back: Michael doesn't. His throat is dry and his glass empty: he's not in the right state to talk.

“I don't care if your other brother-in-law is a sex offender or if your wife walked out on you, I'm not like them. I'm _not_ disappointing. Don't you _dare_ calling me disappointing.”

It feels as though his throat has been grated and covered in salt when Michael starts talking, but, somehow, it hurts more trying not to speak. “My wife is dead.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, still frowning. “Gob said she left.”

“Yeah, _life_. Because cancer.”

There's another pause, a short one, not even three seconds after which Tony mutters a quiet, “yeah, well, I won't leave or die, so shut up.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Maybe I should leave him.”

Between the slurring and the fact that Tony is face down on the floor, Michael needs a couple of seconds to be sure that he's heard that right: when he does, though, he sits up, looking at Tony with horror.  
Well, he actually tries to wobble his way to a sitting position but only manages to prop himself up on his elbows, dozy confusion swimming lazily on his face. “What? _Why?_ ”

Tony half grunts and half groans something that slowly transforms in a slurred “not good for him” that just makes Michael burst into painful laughter.  
It isn't painful because of some deep emotional thing, of course, it's just that his elbows slip and he ends up knocking his head against the floor: still, it was worth it. Michael can spot feelgood lies, and he's pretty sure that laughing at it will be enough to make it disappear.

“Bullshit,” he says then, just to be sure. “ _Why_.”

Another long and inarticulate whine comes from the body that's supposed to be Tony's: then he rolls around, showing his face to Michael just as the sudden movement makes Tony's skin turn a sickly green. “Fuck,” he groans, his left arm slapping over his eyes in what Michael recognizes as an attempt to make the world stop spinning. “Because we argue and it _hurts_ and he's away and it _hurts_ and sometimes he's an _idiot_ and it _hurts_ and this is not _normal,_ okay, this is _weird,_ I'm not made for confusion, I don't like feeling like an idiot just because he's in the room, that's not _professional_ and _he killed my dove!_ ”

Michael laughs again, his brain screaming a chipper ' _I fucking knew it_ ' as the big dead birds fixation finds an explanation. “Doves are going to die and brides are going to burn, Tony, accept that.”

“I don't want to accept that,” Tony mutters, his voice shaking because of what Michael suspects is a terrible nausea.

“Yeah, well, _do_. Bad things happen when this family sticks together, but it's even worse when we don't. You make each other happy, apparently, so I guess that's worth one of the ten plagues.”

Tony raises his head to frown at Michael, something he regrets almost instantly as his neck gives up and makes him knock the back of his head against the floor. “Death of the firstborn?” Tony somehow manages to ask between the whines.

“No, death of... animals. Birds?”

“Not a plague.”

Michael would roll his eyes if that didn't make the room do a barrel roll. “Stay. Mom hates you.”

Tony snorts. “And I wouldn't want to please the booze witch, would I?” he mutters with a small smile, turning on his side and cuddling up in a small ball.

“Good.” Michael smiles, shutting his eyes in a desperate attempt to make his stomach stop turning on itself. “A disappointing brother-in-law already.”

Something that smells very much of fresh bread and vodka hits Michael's face, leaving a disgustingly sticky patch on his cheek.


End file.
